by Cole McCade
“I don’t need a new Daddy!” Willow shrieked, and dug her fingers into the back of her Daddy’s shirt. “Daddy is my Daddy.”
“Your father is—”
“Miriam,” Daddy warned, low and seething. “Don’t push her. She said no.”
“I didn’t hear a ‘no.’ Is that your answer, Willow? Are you telling me ‘no’?” Mama’s voice rose high and shrill and waspish. “Didn’t you miss me at all?”
Why were they doing this to her? Why was everything all wrong now, because Mama had to come back but didn’t want to stay? “I…I missed you, but…”
“Then why don’t you want to come with me? With your brother?”
“He’s not my brother!” she flared.
Devon’s head jerked up. He stared at her, and his eyes were wide and sad and hurt like a puppy, a little tiny puppy with wet eyes and sad droopy ears and a mouth that quivered like a soft overripe fruit ready to burst. But she’d said it. She’d said it and she’d meant it because she didn’t need a brother who made things confusing, a brother who meant Mama had gone away and found a new Daddy and been happy with a whole other family for all this time she could have spent with Willow.
“He’s not,” she said again, gulping back and hoping the feeling choking up her neck like a fist was a scream of rage and not tears, because she didn’t want to be a baby girl and cry. “He’s not my brother! You’re…you’re mean, and…and you can just go away! Go away and don’t come back!”
She didn’t mean it. She didn’t mean it and she wanted to take it back as soon as she said it, but it was out. And all she’d wanted, all she’d needed was to see Mama’s face crumple for a second. Just to see Mama hurt. Just to know that Mama cared, even a little, enough that she would hurt when Willow said go away when all Mama knew how to do was go away.
But all Mama did was look at her. The same way she’d looked at Daddy, like Willow was all see-through and there was nothing to her. No substance, no weight, nothing worth seeing.
“If that’s what you want,” Mama said icily.
It’s not what I want, Willow cried inside. I want you to stay and Devon can stay too but don’t ask me to pick between you, don’t ask me to go with you and leave Daddy when I want you need you love you both!
“You heard her,” Daddy said. He had that steady quietness to his voice, that warning calm, like an earthquake was coming and everything had gone completely still in fear. “Take your games somewhere else, Miriam.”
Mama made a soft, scoffing sound. “I could have given you a better life, Willow,” she said. “Better than this. When you’re a woman, you’ll understand.”
But I’m already growing up, Willow thought. I don’t think I ever want to be a woman.
She kept her face hidden in Daddy’s back as those click-clack steps of Mama’s shiny, shiny black heels turned around and walked away. Then the gate, then the car door slamming, and then the silky purr of an engine. She remembered this had happened before, too, only that time it had been a snake-car for the oily man and the car had been so very, very loud. And she understood, then, that some people had things they just did, things that were part of who they were, that made up everything that defined them down to their deepest, deepest parts.
Mama was made up of leaving, but she wasn’t made for goodbyes.
When the sound of that engine receded, Daddy finally moved, though he was creaking and careful, and he pivoted on one leg because the other didn’t seem to want to lift, like a pole embedded in the porch. But he caught Willow up and picked her up like he used to do when she was a little girl, wrapping her against his tree-trunk chest and holding her safe and stroking her back.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” he whispered.
Willow shook her head and buried her face in his neck and breathed in the scent of the rich oil that he used to make his beard soft and shiny. That smell was home, and Mama would never have that smell. “No,” she mumbled, and wrapped her arms tight tight tight around his neck. “Are you?”
“No,” he admitted with a faint, rueful laugh. “I don’t think we’re going to see your mother again for a long time, sweetheart.” She felt the swallow move down his throat, as stark as his heart beating in his chest, like a fluttering sparrow moving in a panic under her palm. “Maybe never again.”
She didn’t understand any of this. Why Mama had come now, what Mama had been trying to give her when she had everything she needed right here. But she understood that it had hurt Daddy, and she hugged him tighter as if she could be a grown-up and comfort him, too.
“Daddy?” she whispered. “Do you still love Mama?”
“I think I’ll always love your mother, Willow. Your mother is…” He heaved a great sigh. “She’s something you can love but can’t ever hold on to. A force of nature. Like the wind, or the tide. It’ll always leave you, but sometimes it comes back.” He made her sound like something pretty, so pretty, when Willow thought Mama was all ugly inside. “Don’t hate your mother for what she is, baby.”
“I don’t hate her.” Willow curled up as small as she could. Daddy would have to put her down soon, so she held fast while she could. “But I don’t think I love her, either.”
“That’s okay, baby. And it’s okay if you need to cry, too.”
“I’m not going to cry.”
“Okay, baby.”
But she wanted to. She wanted to scream, wanted to cry, wanted everything to make the kind of sense it never would, because adults did things for strange reasons that came from spite and fear and other things she didn’t understand. And she didn’t think Mama had come here for her. Not really. There’d been something in Mama that had wanted to make Daddy shake this way, like it made Mama big and powerful, when it didn’t.
It didn’t.
It just made everyone around her small.
Willow bit down hard on the inside of her lip until the pain hurt more than the stinging in her eyes, and concentrated on that. No more crying. Not over Mama. Mama was gone. Maybe forever. And Willow’s gut sank, because she’d done that.
“Daddy? Is it my fault if Mama never comes back?”
“No, baby,” Daddy said, and nudged the door open to take her inside. “That’s no one’s fault but her own.”
But Willow thought he was wrong.
Willow thought she’d wished her away, and wishes had power. Wishes could make someone disappear, and once they were gone…
Once they were gone, they didn’t come back again.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IT WAS FUNNY, WILLOW THOUGHT as the lights of Crow City blurred through the Firebird’s window, how cities at night were like galaxies: stars spinning past and yet never quite touching. Every person a million hearts and minds and thoughts bound up in a microcosm, sailing past each other and never quite meeting even when they came within passing distance. Never quite touching unless they crashed, exploded apart in a cataclysm, devoured each other in a spiraling rush of matter that either conjoined into something new…or dissipated into nothing.
Nothing. In the end, most relationships came down to nothing. Father to daughter, husband to wife, friend to friend, brother to brother.
And now she was leaving like her mother, with no word and no hope she’d ever return.
Priest sat in the driver’s seat in with that casual arrogance, his silence so familiar it was comforting, easy. Maybe she’d given up, by accepting this. Accepting that what would happen would happen, and it was out of her hands whether she’d die, he’d let her go, or she’d find her chance again and make good on it this time. She glanced over her shoulder, watching him, and idly toyed at the pendant resting against her chest, the crimson amber warmed to the temperature of her body and burning against her fingertips.
“You are still melancholy,” he said as he changed gears to take a turn, the timbre of the engine shifting in gravelly growls. “What are you thinking about, firefly?”
“That I didn’t say goodbye,” she answered. “That I’m just like my mo
ther.”
“How so?”
“She was always in and out of our lives. She’d disappear, then suddenly show up with another kid. I…I don’t know why she kept having children. I think she liked the glow and special feeling of being pregnant, but never wanted to be a mother. But every time she left, she just…went like a dandelion fluff on the wind, and never looked back. Never said goodbye.”
“So I’ve heard.”
She frowned. “You…you keep talking like you know things about my family. My mother, my uncle. You said you know my uncle. How?”
“Walford Gallifrey saved my life, once.”
Willow inhaled so quickly she choked on it. “What?”
Priest’s lips twitched; he made an amused sound. “He is an interesting man, your uncle. I do wonder if he’d have been so kind, had he known what he was unleashing on the world—and had he known that it would lead to this.”
“I…I don’t understand…how?”
“The details are irrelevant. Suffice to say I was clumsy, at first. I knew how to be a soldier. A Marine. Not an assassin. I made a mistake. Your uncle found me by chance, and implicitly understood that a hospital might raise questions I did not want to answer.” He glanced at her. “It was some time ago. Over five years. But he told me many stories, to pass the hours while I recuperated—of his wayward sister and the situation with the Wests, of his brother-in-law who would not speak to him, of the niece who was already growing so old, so fast, and the double life she led. How happy he was, that you had gone away to university. You would have been nineteen at the time, I think.”
“Yeah,” she said numbly. She didn’t—this—God, everything about Priest was surreal. He was like some strange dark angel that had been hovering over her life for longer than she had ever known, intertwining the threads of fate until they overlapped and tightened into a weave that bound her inextricably to him. And that he knew of her mother, her uncle, even that terrible moment when she’d tasted freedom and understood how her mother could throw everything away and run… “It was the only time I’ve ever really left home. It didn’t last long.”
“What happened?”
“Dad.” She shrugged. That was the answer to everything: why she left school, why she worked so hard, who she loved more than anyone in the world, who she’d live for, who she’d die for. The answer was always Dad, and not even walking away could change that. “We couldn’t afford a live-in helper, and he had a bad spell. Couldn’t walk. I came home to take care of him. By the time he was better, I’d failed out. No point in retaking, so I dropped.”
“Walford said you went to school to build things.” Priest chuckled. “And blow most of them up.”
“I did.” She toyed with the seatbelt. “I was going to be a robotics engineer, with a focus on ballistics. I had an unhealthy fascination with IEDs. I could probably make one with things you have lying around that warehouse.”
He arched a brow. “Is that a threat?”
“I’m just saying,” she said. “Don’t get too comfortable around me.” But she offered a faint smile, as stiff as cracking plaster. “It’s weird, you know. You knowing all these little things about me. You knowing me.”
“I didn’t quite connect the dots until you called him.” Priest made a thoughtful sound. “He loves you, you know. As if you were his own daughter.”
Something in those words drew her up; she studied his profile, gilt in kaleidoscope edges by city lights, colors dancing along the refractive edges of those razor-thin eyeglasses. “You sound as if you care for him, too.”
“I do remember him with some fondness.”
“Do you know what it will do to him, if you kill me?”
“I know,” he replied, soft, hushed. “Don’t think it does not weigh on my mind with every hour, firefly.”
She reached toward him, drew back, then made herself reach again, curling her fingers against his forearm. “I know what I’m asking you. It’s not just trust. Because in the end, if I lie to you and go to the police anyway…I’m asking you to choose me over you.”
“Indeed.” His arm bunched under her touch, muscle corded tight. “And yet while selfishness is not listed in the Ten Commandments…it is very much a sin in the eyes of God.”
“What are you saying?”
“I don’t…” He shook his head. “I do not know yet. But you promised to stay, firefly. Remember that.”
Hope had thorns, she realized. Thorns that made it hard to hold on to, because it stung and gouged deeper and deeper holes the tighter she clutched it.
“I remember,” she whispered, and pulled back, curling up in the seat. “Trust me…I can’t ever forget.”
* * *
THE DRIVE BACK TO THE warehouse was tense, silent. She thought of the story he’d told her, of the Bridge of Sighs. Of that last damned sigh as the condemned walked past the window that gave them their final glimpse of the outside world, their final glimpse of the people they loved, before they faced the gallowsman and the inevitable dark.
She pressed her fingers to the window of the Firebird and watched the city pass by with her family in the rear view mirror, and sighed what might well be her last sigh before her prison closed around her for good.
Nonetheless, as Priest pulled into the warehouse again, she paid close attention to the setup of the double-door exit. She pretended to drowse against the door with her brow resting to the window, but watched through half-closed eyes as he opened the exterior door with the garage door opener, then pulled the Firebird in, closed the exterior, and got out to unlock the interior door. It had been chained with a padlock and key, and when he was done he slipped the key back into his pocket, on a ring with the car keys. A switch on the wall sent the door grinding up, identical to the switch inside.
She needed that key.
She tried to keep herself limp, as Priest opened the car door and lifted her out—as if she’d been sleeping the entire time, and only now stirred as he tucked her against his chest. She made what she hoped was a soft, sleepy sound, only to be answered by a flat noise of amusement as he carried her inside.
“You can feign sleep,” he said flatly. “Do you think that means you’ll escape your end of the deal?”
She tensed and snapped her eyes open, looking up at him. “What deal?”
“So you’re awake now, then?” He arched both brows mockingly.
“Don’t you start. What deal?”
“I told you what you asked may not come without a price.”
“What else do you want?” She stared at him. “I said I’d stay. You…you keep fucking touching me and…I…what else can I give you?”
Priest didn’t answer until he’d stopped at the foot of the bed—and spilled her onto it, tumbling her onto her back against the sheets. He slid down over her, resting on one knee, his hair sheeting in a wild sunrise fall down around them both.
“Your willing submission,” he said, something deep and dark turning those golden eyes into luminous pools that threatened to drown her. “Complete and utter.”
She pushed herself back on her hands, looking up at him with her heart in her throat. “I…I gave you that. You tied me to the bed.”
“Are you so naïve, then?”
It stung. Stung because Uncle Wally had said the same; stung because she was that naïve. She lifted her chin. “What next? Whips and floggers?”
“Not quite.” He smirked rather darkly. “Even when you surrender, you fight me. You fight yourself. Stop. Just this once…stop.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “What happens if I do?”
“Close your eyes,” he said. “And I’ll show you.” He pushed back from her, rising to his feet. “I’ll show you how good it can feel.”
“Feeling good doesn’t make it any less wrong.”
“Remember, firefly. Nothing left to lose.”
“Everything to lose,” she said. “And everything to fight for.”
He simply looked at her, waiting, quiet. Offering her the
choice. Offering to let her forget for another few heated, rolling, thrusting minutes how afraid she was, how ashamed, how disgusted with herself, even if she would hate herself even more afterward. After wasn’t now.
She closed her eyes.
And waited, in a silence that quickly became smothering. He could be anywhere, with that soundless gait; doing anything. The only thing that told her he wasn’t near her was the absence of his heat, and she bit her lip, waiting, until the tension inside her built higher and higher and walked chill fingers down her spine.
“Priest—”
“Shh.”
Suddenly he was there: right next to her, his voice in her ear, and she jumped with a sharp sound, only remembering to keep her eyes closed at the last moment. Rough hands touched her, coaxed her, eased her up onto her knees. Then something soft against her face, against her eyes, loose at first and then pulling back, wrapping around her head. She gasped.
“You’re blindfolding me?”
A pause. Then those movements continued, and deft fingers knotted the blindfold behind her head. He slipped the shirt’s collar down, pressed a kiss to her shoulder, rumbled against her skin.
“I know you cannot trust me,” he said softly. “But try to relax. No questions. Just…feel, Willow. Feel this without fighting it.”
She made a quiet, frightened sound, but nodded; she didn’t know if she was terrified or trembling with anticipation. She wanted to hate herself for craving his touch, for being that woman, for being like her mother, but she was starting to wonder what the fuck was wrong inside her head that she couldn’t enjoy sex like any other woman without everything inside her hissing dirty thing, dirty thing.
Because he’s a murderer, that voice whispered. Because you’re enjoying sex with a murderer, dirty thing, dirty girl.
And that murderer nearly made her jump out of her skin, now, as his hands cupped her breasts from behind, stroking over them for a taunting, shivering moment before he caught the buttons of her shirt and pulled it open, sliding it down her arms to leave her naked from the waist up. Naked and blind and vulnerable, with no idea what he would do next—but she caught an inkling when he pulled her belt off, stripped the shirt fully, clasped her wrists, and drew them together to meet at the small of her back. Then leather. Leather rough-textured and lined in something soft, wrapping around her wrist, the sensations of contact heightened unbearably in the silence, in the darkness; she bit back a sound, her stomach a tumble of thorns and fragile things, as he buckled her wrists together, drawing each motion out with pointed deliberation. Priest knew how to seduce with the simplest actions, how to make the smallest things fraught with potential—the kinetic energy of this moment taut as a bubble on the verge of bursting, as he pressed a hand between her shoulder blades and pushed her gently forward.